The League

Chapter 1 - I'm Sorry, But I Can't

They came for him again.

Phoenix's mood soured so quickly that he almost turned around just to glare at the tracker. So soon? he thought. The last one showed up only two weeks ago, and there was usually a month-long gap in between each one, during which he could live like a normal person and pretend that this recurring problem didn't exist.

He shook his head in irritation. His year's worth of experience with this monthly dilemma meant almost nothing; he knew that even a minor slip-up had the potential to cause a major catastrophe. No amount of experience would change that.

He glanced over his shoulder, digging his nails into his palms. The man had been trailing him for ten minutes, too long to be coincidental. Even though the two-week gap was unusual, he had to be a tracker, and his appearance only proved it: inconspicuous clothing, a blank, neutral expression, and an easy gait. Eyes glued to the sidewalk. Black boots. To anyone else on the busy streets of Queens, it looked like he was walking to work, but Phoenix knew what to look for. It was the boots, mainly. For whatever reason, every tracker that was sent after him wore boots.

Exactly who the man was, Phoenix had no idea, but he knew why he was here.

Phoenix rubbed his palms, smoothing out the crescent-moon indents his nails had left on his skin. He was in the middle of making a potentially disastrous decision—he needed the tracker to catch him, and that meant allowing himself to be cornered, but there were too many people around. Ducking into an alley with someone following him would turn at least a few heads. This was never a problem with the others, who had surprised him in quieter, easily manageable areas. Now, the only private place he could go was his apartment. Bringing a tracker directly to his home was a bad idea, but it was also the only idea he had.

Besides, he knew the routine. If he was careful, there would be no harm done.

His apartment building was quiet, like always. It never bothered him before, but now he wished there were more creaking floorboards, or barking dogs, or noisy air ducts, just anything loud enough to drown out his pounding heartbeat. He went up the stairs two steps at a time, expecting the tracker to be trailing behind close enough to see where he was going.

When his apartment door was closed and locked behind him, Phoenix stood with his back against it, listening. Aside from the low, dull hum of the building's ventilation system, he heard nothing. He waited for the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside.

They didn't come.

Phoenix turned and stared at the door. Even though it was locked, he was sure the tracker would force his way in...but there should still be footsteps, shouldn't there? Was he being paranoid? Maybe it truly was a coincidence that some random man was tailing him for ten minutes. It wouldn't be the first time he thought something was bigger than it really was.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Phoenix blinked hard before turning around. The tracker was sitting at the kitchen table.

Phoenix said nothing. Each tracker was different; sometimes they waited for him to speak first, and sometimes they spoke first. But whoever broke the silence, it didn't matter, because the meetings always ended the same way.

The tracker raised his hands to show that they were weaponless. There was no concern on his face, no wary stiffness in his posture. It was clear he had no idea what he'd gotten himself to.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said calmly. "I'm here to talk."

Phoenix blinked like he was confused. "About what?"

"Let's take this nice and easy," the tracker replied. "Why don't you sit down?"

Phoenix pulled out the chair across from him. It was easy to act scared and apprehensive, easy to act like he wasn't the one leading here. He had plenty of practice. "What's this about?" he asked, flicking his eyes toward the door to look worried.